O Distinct

Lady of my unkempt adoration

if i have made

a fragile certain

song under the window of your soul

it is not like any songs

(the singers the others

they have been faithful

to many things and which

die

i have been sometimes true

to Nothing and which lives

they were fond of the handsome

moon        never spoke ill of the

pretty stars        and to

the serene the complicated

and the obvious

they were faithful

and which i despise,

frankly

admitting i have been true

only to the noise of worms,

in the eligible day

under the unaccountable sun)

Distinct Lady

swiftly take

my fragile certain song

that we may watch together

how behind the doomed

exact smile of life's

placid obscure palpable

carnival where to a normal

melody of probable violins dance

the square virtues and the oblong sins

perfectly

gesticulate the accurate

strenuous lips of incorruptible

Nothing        under the ample

sun, under the insufficient

day under the noise of worms